| Title | : | Tales of Ordinary Madness |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0872861554 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780872861558 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 238 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1967 |
With Bukowski, the votes are still coming in. There seems to be no middle ground—people seem either to love him or hate him. Tales of his own life and doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes. In a sense, Bukowski was a legend in his time: a madman, a recluse, a lover; tender, vicious; never the same.
From prostitutes to classical music, Bukowski ingeniously mixes high and low culture in his "tales of ordinary madness." These stories are humorous and haunting, angry yet tender portrayals of life in the underbelly of Los Angeles.
Tales of Ordinary Madness Reviews
-
i was first introduced to this book in the bathroom of a one-night-stand's house. i tried to delay the sex part, because i was actually more interested in the book than the guy but i was eventually overtaken. nonetheless, i went and bought the book the following week.
-
Every story in this collection wants to make you drink yourself silly, run away from home or quit your job. Bukowski has just one story. That of the outcast who is an alcoholic involved in some menial job struggling with his sexual frustrations and instinctive living.
There are takedowns of mediocre poets like Shakespere. There is great criticism of Norman Mailer - "God, he just writes on and on. There's no force, no humor. I don't understand it. Just a pushing out of the word, any word, anything ....."
And this great quote - "Doldrums of mechanical people in a mechanical act trying to tickle their cement souls back into life." That pretty much nails everything that is wrong with most books, music, movies and activism today.
(Goodreads deleted my old review. I wrote the above from memory.) -
DNF on page 80.
I’ve read half of these stories now, and they’re all more or less the same.
They focus on an alcoholic main character, either returning from prison or doing something that will inevitably send him back to prison.
I will say this truly is ‘dirty realism’. The character makes rape jokes, he is sexist and violent. He is depicted well in the sense that I despised him. It’s also highly realistic as there are types of people like this in the world, which is frightening, but true.
I’m still giving a star rating as like I said I’ve read about 10 of these stories and I feel that’s enough to formulate an opinion. It’s not a bad book but I couldn’t stomach it anymore so I’m leaving it here. -
Tales of Ordinary Madness, Charles Bukowski
Tales of Ordinary Madness is one of two collections of short stories by Charles Bukowski.
Contents: A .45 To Pay The Rent; Doing Time With Public Enemy No. 1; Scenes From The Big Time; Nut Ward Just East Of Hollywood; Would You Suggest Writing As A Career?; The Great Zen Wedding; Reunion; Cunt And Kant And A Happy Home; Goodbye Watson; Great Poets Die In Steaming Pots Of Shit; My Stay In The Poet's Cottage; The Stupid Christs; Too Sensitive; Rape! Rape!; An Evil Town; Love It Or Leave It; A Dollar And Twenty Cents; No Stockings; A Quiet Conversation Piece; Beer And Poets And Talk; I Shot A Man In Reno; A Rain Of Women; Night Streets Of Madness; Purple As An Iris; Eyes Like The Sky; One For Walter Lowenfels; Notes Of A Potential Suicide; Notes On The Pest; A Bad Trip; Animal Crackers In My Soup; A Popular Man; Flower Horse; The Big Pot Game; The Blanket. ...
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز دواردهم ماه سپتامبر سال 2019 میلادی
عنوان: حکایت‌هایی از دیوانگی‌های روزمره؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجم: مهسا نظام آبادی؛ اردبیل، انتشارات عنوان، 1395؛ در 60 ص؛ شابک: 9786007826096؛ چاپ دیگر در 56 ص؛ تهران، کارگاه اتفاق؛ 1398؛ شابک: 9786229632802؛
عنوان: برای من غمگین نشوید؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی ؛ مترجم: سینا کمال‌آبادی؛ غاردبیل ، انتشارات عنوان، 1395؛ در 96 ص؛ شابک: 9786007826164؛ چاپ دیگر: تهران، کارگاه اتفاق؛ 1398؛ در 120 ص؛ شابک: 9786229632802؛
داستان‌های «جنون معمولی» یکی از دو مجموعه داستان کوتاه «چارلز بوکوفسکی» است که از میان داستان‌های چاپ شده ی ایشان در سال 1972 میلادی برگزیده شده است. نام مجموعه دوم، «زیباترین زن شهر» است و هر دو مجموعه، در سال 1983 میلادی نیز منتشر شده اند. نقل نونه متن: (خیلی وقتها وضعیت آشپزخانه مثل وضعیت ذهن است. مردهای آشفته و به هم ریخته، مردهای رو به راه: مردهای اندیشمندند. آشپزخانه شان مثل ذهنشان است: پر از آت و آشغال، پر از خرت و پرت های کثیف و آلوده. اما از این وضعیت ذهن خود به خوبی باخبرند و از آن بدشان هم نمیآید. گاهی از کوره در میروند، به زمین و زمان بد و بیراه میگویند و آتشی به پا میکنند که بیش و کم به این آتش خلاقیت میگوییم. درست مثل زمانی که کمی سرشان گرم است و آشپزخانه را تمیز میکنند. ولی خیلی زود دوباره همه چیز به هم میریزد و دوباره آتششان میخوابد و به بابو، قرص و دوا، دعا و جادو، رابطه ی جنسی، بخت آزمایی و عرفان رو میآورند؛ ولی مردی که همیشه آشپزخانه اش مرتب است، ناتو است. از این مرد بر حذر باش! وضع آشپزخانه اش مثل وضع ذهنش است: همه چیز مرتب است و سر جای خود. گذاشته است زندگی زود تبدیلش کند به ملاطی سیمانی و سفت و سخت با طرز فکری منظم که هم نگه اش میدارد و هم خیالش را راحت میکند. اگر ده دقیقه به حرفهایش گوش کنید، میفهمید که تا حالا هرچه در زندگی اش گفته به کلی بی معناست و هیشه کلافه کننده. این مرد، مرد سیمانی است. در مقایسه با انواع دیگر مردها، مردهای سیمانی بیشترند؛ پس اگر سراغ هر مردی رفتی اول به آشپزخانه اش نگاهی بینداز و وقتت را تلف نکن. اما آشپزخانه ی کثیف یک زن ــ از نگاه مردها ــ قصه ی دیگری است. اگر زن شاغل نیست و بچه هم ندارد، تمیزی یا کثیفی آشپزخانه اش تقریباً همیشه - به جز موارد استثنایی - نسبت مستقیم دارد با اینکه چقدر به تو اهمیت میدهد. بعضی زنها تئوریهایی درباره ی نجات جهان دارند اما نمیتوانند یک فنجان قهوه را بشورند. اگر همین حرفها را هم به آنها بزنی، در جواب میگویند: «شستن فنجان قهوه چه اهمیتی دارد.» متاسفانه، اهمیت دارد. به ویژه برای مردی که پشت ماشین تراش هشت ساعت کامل و دو ساعت هم اضافه کاری کرده است. اگر میخواهی دنیا را نجات دهی از نجات یک مرد شروع کن، بقیه اش حرفهای رمانتیک پرطمطراق یا سیاست بازی است. زنان خوب هم در دنیا هستند؛ من حتی یکی دو تایشان را دیده ام. پس زنی هم پیدا میشود که جور دیگری باشد؛ یکبار این شغل لعنتی داشت مرا طوری میکشت که در پایان هشت یا بیست و یک ساعت کار، کل بدنم مثل یک تکه چوبِ خشک شده بود و درد میکرد. میگویم «چوبِ خشک» چون جور دیگری نمیتوانم توصیفش کنم. یعنی آخرشب حتی نمیتوانستم کتم را بپوشم. نمیشد حتی دستهایم را بلند کنم و در آستینهایم جا دهم. شدت درد آن چنان زیاد بود که دستم را حتی تا همین حد هم نمیتوانستم بلند کنم. با کوچکترین حرکتی درد مثل گاوی وحشی که نور قرمز دیده باشد، حمله میکرد. دیوانه کننده بود. اینبار به یک سری جریمه هایی برمیخوردم که بیشترشان ساعت سه یا چهار صبح نوشته شده بودند. آنشبِ به خصوص که داشتم از سر کار به خانه برمیگشتم و سعی میکردم از خودم در برابر ریزه کاریهای بی اهمیت فنی محافظت کنم؛ خواستم دست چپم را دراز کنم و وقت پیچیدن با حرکت دست به چپ اشاره کنم. راهنماهایم دیگر کار نمیکرد؛ چون یکبار که مست بودم دسته ی راهنما در رفته بود، و به فرمان چسبیده بود؛ این بود که میخواستم دست چپم را دراز کنم. فقط توانستم مچ دستم را بیرون پنجره ببرم و یکی از انگشتان کوچکم را دراز کردم. دستم دیگر حرکت نمیکرد و دردش مضحک بود. انقدر مضحک که زدم زیر خنده؛ خیلی خنده دار بود: آن انگشت کوچکی که به فرمان بهترین راننده ی لس آنجلس بیرون بود؛ شب سیاه و خالی؛ هیچ کسی آن دور و بر نبود و من علامتی معیوب و مزخرف به باد میدادم. خنده ام گرفت و در همان حالی که فرمان میدادم و میخندیدم سعی داشتم با آن یکی دستِ ناقصم فرمان را کنترل کنم و نزدیک بود به ماشینی پارک شده بزنم. موفق شدم که هرجوری بود پارک کنم. کلید انداختم و وارد شدم: آه، خانه! ...)؛ پایان نقل. ا. شربیانی -
I simply love Bukowski. He belonged to a world I dont quite understand and he disliked people on such a high level - it confuses me. He describes a universe, where all things are wrong and where meaning of going on seems as dubious as the claim that one can come out of this life still being sane.
And yet, there are too many familiarities in what Bukowski says. I can sympathise to what he is saying or rather, what he seems to be feeling. Though the source of his impressions is different from mine, I think, in many ways, it leads us to the same destination. Or such is the feeling Bukowski leaves his reader with anyway.
And the speech, the pauses, the choice of words. All these things just so happen to fall into the right places so that they can speak directly to the reader, so that the reader would be finally able to understand what is wrong with this world and that, really, none of us will leave from here alive. Better kick back with a beer or two. -
I shouldn't be dropping a bombshell here by stating that I am partial to some Bukowski, as really, it's fairly old news. After reading and entirely loving
Post Office a few years back, I was hoping and I suppose I was expecting to feel the same about this book.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is very different to other Bukowski I've read and enjoyed. I felt like this was written in haste, and much of it was put down in order to startle someone that isn't used to Bukowski's style. I've said it before, he's like marmite, you either love him or you hate him.
Various breasts, the female sex and vomit were in my face in nearly every chapter, and although this didn't shock or upset me, I feel that if there isn't a story to connect these things together, except maybe a rushed bit of dialogue that makes little sense, then these things are entirely irrelevant. I craved plot. Even just a smidgen.
The style was also more difficult to appreciate, due to the lack of punctuation and capitalization. Obviously this was done purposely, but for me, I felt like It needed a complete and swift editing job.
There is some hope to be found here, though. I do recognise Bukowski for all that he was, which was a drunk in reality, and he's probably not a person you'd enjoy taking for a coffee, but apart from that, he was always brutally honest about life, including the highs and lows that come as standard with it. I can appreciate that he really didn't care what another person thought of him or his choices. He lived his life as he saw fit, mostly wanting to be left to his own devices, and all of the time giving the conformists the middle finger.
Even though I didn't love this, I sincerely hope that I enjoy my next Bukowski more. -
Even though I am a big fan of Bukowski's novels I think his Strength was definitely in short stories and this collection has got everything you would come to expect from the master of low life literature, from the booze, women, cheap cigars and poetry reading to the drunken outbursts, lewd behaviour, betting on the horses and dead end jobs it's all there, and if I could choose any drinking buddy dead or alive there is no contest (I can almost picture the scene now with me probably waking up in the gutter!), and with so many memorable lines one of my favourites was just simply,
"Vera," I said
"What?" She asked
"I am the world's greatest poet," I told her
"living or dead?" She asked
"dead," I said.
Classic Bukowski!
-
Ben Gazzara
https://youtu.be/upL99XQ5_jQ
Style is the answer to everything,
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing,
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it,
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art,
Boxing can be an art,
Loving can be an art,
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men,
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance.
When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style
Joan of Arc had style,
John the Baptist,
Christ,
Socrates,
Caesar,
García Lorca
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water,
or you walking out of the bathroom, naked, without seeing me. -
Χωρις πολλα λογια, Μπουκοφσκι σε μεγαλα κεφια.ενα απο τα καλυτερα βιβλια του που εχω διαβασει με απολαυστικα διηγηματα, γεματα απο ολα αυτα τα στοιχεια που τον χαρακτηριζουν..
-
Ar įmanoma išaugti iš rašytojų? Žanrų? Žinoma, dauguma mūsų išauga vaikiškas knygas, bet aš ne. Paauglių ir vaikų literatūrą skaitau su didžiausiu malonumu ir kas vakarą „iš reikalo“, kai sūnelis tempia man krūvas knygučių. Bet man patinka jos! Bukowskis irgi labai patiko, kai man buvo apie dvidešimt metų. Toks maištingas, toks drąsus, taip purvinai rašo apie gyvenimą, kuris jam toks ir buvo, ir kokį nori matyt nuo iščiustytos literatūros pavargę jauni skaitytojai, pasirengę maištaut prieš viską ir visada. Kaip ir Bukowskis. „Paštas“, „Arklienos kumpis“, „Moterys“, „Sriuba, kosmosas ir ašaros“ – tada valgyte suvalgiau šitas knygas ir ohooo, kaip patiko. Dabar pasiėmiau šią apsakymų knygą ir tikėjaus to paties wow efekto. Ech...
Ir niekas čia ne kitaip nei mano išvardintose knygose, kuriomis žavėjaus. „Kitaip“ jau yra mano galvoj, mano viduj, mano sąmonėj ir supratime. Kietas jis rašytojas, kietas chuliganas, knygos paveikios ir niekas to neužginčys, bet trisdešimtmetei Norai to purvo, sekso, alkoholio, šiknų ir šūdų čia buvo gana. Visi apsakymai išvien tokie: gėrimas, muštynės, skausmas, vienišumas, smirdantys reikalai, prostitutės, nusikaltimai, keiksmai ir iššvaistyti gyvenimai. Man patinka, kai tos tamsos ir aštrumo knygose yra, kai autorius nebijo pasikeikt, aprašyt dalykus atviriau, į tekstą įvelt to šleikštulio. O Bukowskis rašo be filtrų ir be jokio krislo pagražinimų – viskas pas jį yra tiesiog apie tai, ko niekas matyt nenori. Ir toks jau jis. Dozuotai tai yra gerai. Skaityt visą knygą vien apie tai – šiandien man truputį per daug. Atsižvelgiant ir į pasaulines šių dienų tragedijas, dovanojančias kasdienį skausmą ir į tai, kad pati iš knygų kiek daugiau reikalauju nei būdama dvidešimties. Niekas niekada neužginčys Bukowskio indėlio į pokytį literatūroje, jo drąsos ir tiesmuko požiūrio į žmones, to, kad niekad neskaitęs paauglys tik jo atvirų tekstų dėka rado raktą į knygų pasaulį. Bet bet bet. Bet mane ši knyga kiek išvargino. Gal to maištininkas autorius ir norėjo? -
This was one of those rare books that made me laugh out loud, with my heart; and yet behind these funny moments a grim reality was lurking underneath.
The first time I saw Bukowski's photo, for a moment I thought he was the prolific Greek poet Yannis Ritsos and then I realised he was not. But beside the beard and the long wavy hair and their prolific writing careers they don't seem to share anything else.
Ritsos is more lyrical more benign in his writing.
Bukowski is more straightforward, with an in-yer-face rawness.
I first learnt (spring 2015) more about Bukowski as a poet and writer through a few documentaries and videos I saw of him on YouTube and from reading about him online.
Two and a half years later I stumble upon this book of short stories at a thrift shop and I said It's about time I read something by him
I realised that this is some classic Bukowski by just reading the info on the back cover stating that the tales of this volume were originally collected together with more stories in a single volume entitled Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness
... Thus, I dived in ...
At the beginning I was a bit annoyed by his (characters') attitude towards women but as the stories became more and more autobiographical I started enjoying them more.
Bukowski isn't hiding behind his words, he isn't using beautifying descriptions for things that can't be said, he isn't afraid to say what he feels.
He is honest, filthy, misanthropic, has an acid pen and caustic humour, criticises everything from American life to Anna Karenina. He is Charles Bukowski.
So, I won't say more about this book but I will leave you with a random extract that illustrates pretty well what I said about his writing:Bukowski hates Santa Claus. Bukowski makes deformed figures out of typewriter erasers. when water drips, Bukowski cries. when Bukowski cries, water drips. o sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great ugliness everywhere like that fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o the mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-tick seeping each neat one of us balanced and unbalanced and holy and constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world, o the children to become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o the sadness of sabres and the closing of the walls - no Santa Claus, no Pussy, no Magic Wand, no Cinderella,
p.152
no Great Minds Ever, kukoo - just shit and the whipping of dogs and children, just shit and the wiping away of shit; just doctors without patients just clouds without rain just days without days,
o god o mighty that you put this upon us. -
Bukowski – the man, the myth, the legend.
I’ve been reading Bukowski’s works on and off for the past 25+ years, and I have yet to find it boring.
Tales of Ordinary Madness is a collection of 34 short stories, some fictional, some less so, and some downright out of his own, unique life.
Unlike his other, pseudo-autobiographical works, or his other short story collections, this one was harder to read than most. Not because of the subject matter – after 25 years I know what to expect from him – but because of the frequent lack of proper punctuation, capitalization, and discard for text readability. In essence, many of these stories appear as how they would have been written prior to a proper edit. (this could have been either an intentional choice, or true first drafts – either way, it does not matter to me enough to do the research) Although harder on the eyes, the style does not take away from the content.
In this collection, Bukowski delivers his usual subject matters in his usual style. The master of the lowlife short story form. And for that, I am grateful.
By contemporary standards, Bukowski would be a misogynist, a racist, a tramp, a drunk, and a generally unappealing person. However, the same standards would throw many other great writers under the bus, so to speak. And Bukowski was, undoubtedly, a great writer.
Sure, he was a drunk, and probably not a very nice person. Nevertheless, Bukowski dealt in raw emotions, raw settings, and he did not really give a flying f#@#k about what I, or anybody else think of him. He wrote because he had to (those nagging voices would not stop), and he wrote in an utmost honest way. And that, I can appreciate.
There were many other great writers, but none came even close when it came to honest, raw emotion – Kerouac was too polished, Miller too philosophical, and Hemingway . . . well.
The beauty in Bukowski’s writing lies in its simplicity. If something smells like shit, he writes that. If he is too drunk to get an erection, he writes that. If he manages to get laid, he writes that. And if he finds himself in jail on yet another drunk charge, he writes that, too. He is able to observe the world, make fun of it, and laugh at himself at the same time.
In an era where the radio pours forth the high-pitched voices of whiny, wimpy-sounding male singers; where the media promotes sensitive males, tough women, and gender-neutral bathrooms; where political correctness trumps everything else – Bukowski’s rough manliness is a breath of fresh air (even though he was not being a man - he just did not give a damn). [and judging by the rise of #MeToo the image of correctness, equality, and sensitivity is very much just an image] I would never want to be like him, however, I can appreciate his existence.
In a way, Bukowski’s writing shows what he always said – he hated people, society, ideals – he wanted to be left alone. He drank to escape his inner demons, to escape the world. He gave up on the world, and reemerged honest in a way many other writers could not.
Reading his works never fails to inspire me to create, which is perhaps the paradox in all of this. -
This book effectively sucked my soul out & demolished my will to live
-
Eu nu m-am regăsit deloc în scriitura lui Charles Bukowski, din cauza limbajului vulgar. Atât de vulgar! Înțeleg perfect că tocmai stilul trivial îl diferențiază și îi conferă acea notă de autenticitate pentru care este atât de apreciat de unii, notă care este unealta perfectă pentru a descrie mizeria din lume și din sufletul oamenilor, doar că pe mine m-a pierdut când am citit dialogul de mai jos, dintre o fetiță și tatăl ei, iar de-acolo mi s-a blocat mintea.
,,- de ce are păr nuca de cocos?
- of, Doamne, habar n-am. eu de ce am păr pe coa*e?"
Deși am terminat cu greu toate povestirile și mi-a luat vreo două luni, am descoperit o mulțime de imagini puternice și realiste, care pun serios pe gânduri cititorul. Din loc în loc, am dat și peste fragmente în care m-am regăsit, deși nici nu mă așteptam. Apreciez cadrul general al scriiturii lui, dar aș vrea să întâlnesc aceste elemente fără să îmi sară în față atâtea organe genitale. Îmi lăcrimează ochii... În articol am copiat integral una dintre povestiri, în caz că vreți să vă faceți o idee. Recenzia aici:
https://bit.ly/3fMRamf.
,,[...] trebuie să mă țin și eu de nevrozele și prejudecățile mele, fiindcă asta e tot ce am.'' -
For me, reading Bukowski is like driving by the site of a huge traffic accident where a flatbed semi loaded with overflowing port-a-potties just plowed into a church bus filled with aging, syphilitic prostitutes on their way to confession—you want to see it but you don’t want to see it, but you do.
Bukowski calls these short stories “fiction” but then his chief protagonist is named ‘Charles Bukowski’ so you start to think this is more autobiographical—and then he populates these vignettes with hot, sexy women who are all clamoring to sleep with ‘Charles Bukowski’—and that’s how you know, yeah, it’s fictional after all.
It’s so hard to describe how this collection of short stories made me feel. I’m saying 90% of this [stuff] is completely repulsive—we’re talking a snot pie filled with ball sweat and beans—but every once in a while there’s a tiny glimpse of recognizable decency and honesty… and then it jumps right back to ball sweat and beans. -
I couldn't get into this book. I really liked Post Office but this one left me cold. I felt that the quality was patchy - a few of the stories I really liked, but some appeared to me to be dashed off at speed or written just to shock.
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Como antología de relatos, los hay mejores y los hay peores. Pero los buenos brillan mucho.
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El libro "Storie di ordinaria follia" es parte de una colección de
Charles Bukowski: una narrativa estadounidense típica los años treinta. Los borradores están escritos casi exclusivamente en clave autobiográfica y incluyen cerca sesenta historias que oscilan entre: alcohol, mujeres, sexo, carreras de caballos, la vida salvaje del mismo con cincuenta años sin trabajo fijo. Son muchas historias cocrtas y fueron publicadas por primera vez en 1972.
En cierto sentido los personajes de Bukowski quisieran representar el preámbulo de la población estadounidense después de la crisis del 29: personas que para acomodarse a ese período oscuro intentaron dar lo mejor que pudieron, aunque si luego la misma población no encontró mucho espacio en el resurgimiento de la sociedad estadounidense. Según la lógica del narrador los relatos del libro se condensan en monólogo entre los diferentes alter egos del escritor y sus personajes; casualmente o por voluntad, en todos los libros del autor entre los personajes es constante el uso continuo del cuerpo hembra.
Leer un libro de Charles Bukowski o leer una docena no hace mucha diferencia. Sus historias pueden también destacarse entre sí pero el círculo vicioso del autor sigue siendo el alcol y el sexo. O cuando el tema del sexo difiere es porque en esta hipótesis particular los hombres pueden convertirse en víctimas de las mujeres: gente explotada tal vez por dinero, o quizás solo por fama. Sin embargo, hay también ocasiones más agradables, donde se busca al hombre solo para momentos de placer. Después de todo los cuentos del libro siguen siendo historias de ignorancia. Charles Bukowski frente otros escritores es asiduamente superficial: el período de su referencia debió ser floreciente y compensó los textos con la agregación de prostitutas; vagabundos; clochards; hombres comunes o inútiles que de alguna manera intentaron ganar el día para gastarse el dinero largo la noche.
El texto está disponible bajo la
Licencia Creative Commons Atribución Compartir Igual 4.0; pueden aplicarse cláusulas adicionales. -
i learned that even the most obstruct, vile, deepest tretches of a mans soul based on views of things you and i avoid yet confront reluctantly in our evryday lifes can be depicted as art.i began eating away at this book as a way to pass time while sittingg in a texas county jail. i had no idea what i was getting my self into, let alone who the fuck charles bukowski was. but it opened my eyes to the true beauty some beat poets have to offer.the way he includes himself into his stories of other men that keep you in a constant state of confusion as to whether he is talking about himself, another, or speaking through mere hypothetical situations he created to render himself clear of the ravished ambitions he once called his own. that being said i believe that buk incorperates himself (by using false names) into situations where he acts and speaks the way most of us amricans wish we could in the most average of situations we always seem to find ourselves in. by no means am i proud to say i can relate to this poet and frankly i could have happily gone along with the sad story written by some arrogant masicistic being they call god whom is the author to my life with out ever running into this sonofabitches book, but as freud said there are no accidents. (forgive me fo being so cliche) that being said i still to this day find my self craving (as i do all things that are bad for me) more of the incredibly enlightening yet disturbing literature written by charles bukowski.
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I lost this book when I was about 50 pages from the end. I think I might have left it in the gym - which is probably some sort of Bukowskian sin.
I'll read those last pages one day, but I knew from half way in that this was a five star book. I love Bukowski. I love his tales of ordinary madness. Though, of course, the madness isn't ordinary because Bukowski wasn't like most people.
He drinks his way through the book, offending the world around him, offending himself...it reads like a bewildered kid trying to figure out why he has suddenly been let out of a cupboard, and instead of the punch in the face he was expecting to receive, he instead gets applause from a world of strangers.
Some people don't like Bukowski, but part of his beauty is he doesn't want you to like him. He doesn't care about the reader. He wrote because without writing he might have simply been a monster. But his words made him a genius.
His honesty, in a literary world crammed with vampires in love and all sorts of bestselling ideas that get published and make me want to puke, is something I often revisit to remind myself why I love writing. He feels like, to me, the last of the old days.
If you don't get him, that's fine. But Bukowski has to be respected.
He's one of the all time very best. -
I was looking for something new (to me) in the early 90's and some dweeb in a Brentano's recommended this to me because Bukowski has died months before. I hate discovering something great just after the author has died. I also hate people saying how great some author (or artist) was after they die, but they never had much to say while the author was still alive.
Anyway, this is one of his two greatest novels. -
Muy pocos relatos me gustaron de este libro. No obstante, volveré a intentarlo con este autor.
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Forse un genio , forse un barbone
Difficile a dirsi .
Di sicuro uno che scrive di se stesso e beve (sempre) troppo.
Una scrittura diretta , rude , sgrammaticata (o è la traduzione? boh!)
a volte "sconcia" , che riesce a farti respirare a fondo il tanfo dell'alcool e dello squallore e dell'emarginazione e della solitudine...
anche se non mancano sprazzi di poesia.
Il libro inizia con questo racconto:La piú bella donna della città
Cass era la piú giovane e la piú bella di 5 sorelle. Cass era la piú bella ragazza di tutta la città. Mezzindiana, aveva un corpo stranamente flessuoso, focoso era e come di serpe, con due occhi che proprio ci dicevano. Cass era fuoco fluido in movimento. Era come uno spirito incastrato in una forma che però non riusciva a contenerlo. I capelli neri e lunghi, i capelli di seta, si muovevano ondeggiando e vorticando come il corpo volteggiava. Lo spirito, o alle stelle o giú ai calcagni. Non c'era via di mezzo, per Cass. C'era anche chi diceva ch'era pazza. Gli imbecilli lo dicevano.
Gli scemi non potevano capirla. Agli uomini in genere Cass pareva una macchina da fottere, e quindi non gliene fregava niente, fosse o non fosse pazza. E Cass ballava e civettava, si lasciava baciare dagli uomini, ma, tranne qualche rara volta, quando si stava per venire al dunque, com'è come non è, Cass si eclissava, Cass aveva eluso gli uomini.
Le sorelle l'accusavano di sprecare la sua bellezza, di non fare buon uso del cervello. Ma Cass ne aveva da vendere, di cervello e di spirito. Dipingeva, danzava, cantava, modellava la creta, e quando qualcuno era ferito, mortificato, nel corpo o nell'anima, Cass provava compassione per costui.
Il suo cervello era, ecco, differente; la sua mentalità non era pratica, ecco quanto.
E poi ,tra cosce , sbronze , rabbie , amarezze e follie , trovi racconti come
"Sei pollici" "Animali in libertà" e infine "La coperta" e...
Al Diavolo, vecchio pazzo di un Bukowski
allora forse non sei solo erezioni eiaculazioni ed esibizioni !?
Forse.
3 stelline e mezzo
sì, perchè mezza stellina l'ho proprio dovuta togliere,
per quella parola- orrenda - di 5 lettere che inizia per s e finisce per a
ripetuta ogni 3 per 2 :) -
"I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human being."
"This birth thing. And this death thing. Each one had it's turn. We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives. An incomparable sadness descended up on me. Seeing all that life that must die. Seeing all that life that would first turn to hate, to dementia, to neuroses, to stupidity, to fear, to murder, to nothing - nothing in life and nothing in death."
"Living was easy – all you had to do was let go. And have a little money. Let the other men fight the wars, let the other men go to jail."
"The human race had always disgusted me. Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your country, your state, your nation…everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity." -
once upon a time, in a shitshack bookstore not unlike so many other shitshack bookstores, a life-long love was forged. employed at this store was a strapping young lad named chris. bright-eyed. bushy-tailed. boneheaded. and enamored with the wealth of books surrounding him. he was perplexed as where to even begin looking for the good stuff, and he’d often scour the place after business hours. labyrinthine shelves. stocked endcaps. free-standing or pop-up displays. a pile of books here and there some moron set down so he could scratch his ass. despite the countless volumes present, chris had hope. and why not, our friend was endowed with a 30% discount, and a penis often favorably compared to the neck of a brontosaurus.
the job itself was a rotten sham. a seasonal gig. it paid a few gracious cents more than the current minimum wage. a career path to absolutely nowhere. worse yet, he couldn’t seem to find anything that tickled his fancy while stalking about. until, one day, after a hectic holiday shopping spree, our stalwart hero was restoring normalcy to his store’s wares in the aftermath of the havoc perpetrated by the yuletime shoppers. the droves of mindless cretins had certainly kicked the store’s ass that day, in pursuit of their wise investments. chris had seen what they were buying while jockeying the register, generally weak shit. Jackie Collins. Clive Cussler. self-help and new age mumbo-jumbo. some presumably-lame shit called “Primary Colors” which was absolutely flying off the shelves that year. sales of voodoo spells and autoerotic asphyxiation were lagging, symptons of a relatviely strong economy. due to the general chaos, chris was left to rearrange to the demanding satisfaction of his taskmaster, todd. this nimrod wielded his pitiful authority like a broadsword. todd read fantasy books by the baker’s dozen. todd’s social skills were what you’d expect of leprous eunuch. todd always had some crusty, white deposits disgustingly accentuating the corners of his thin, weird lips. todd probably diddled himself in the office under the auspices of making the nightly deposit. some deposit. chris endured this chump’s whims in order to continue collecting his unimpressive wages, but that doesn’t mean he was happy. it might even be safe to say that chris was hella pissed off. but better pissed off than pissed on, or so he’d been told.
it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly what act of buffoonery caused the ensuing chance encounter to occur. this much is certain: chris was ‘facing’ one of the shelves sporting the works of authors with surnames beginning with “B”. part of this duty was restocking books on the shelf which had wandered off in the course of the day. books he’d collected canvassing the shop for shit laying around. books which had literally grown legs and gone for a stroll. or books which some clod had brought to the counter, realized they’d never jerk off to, and decided against actually purchasing it. either way, these fuckers weren’t going to put themselves back in alphabetical order. the books, that is. that’s what chris was being paid for. perhaps he was in the act of restoring a copy of Dandelion Wine to its rightful place after discovering it abandoned in the ‘sports’ section. or he could have been returning Don Quixote to its accepted spot in the literary chain of existence from its careless exile near the magazine racks. but a wise man with a dollar to wager might be best betting that poor chris was fucking something up. say foolishly trying to cram a movie-tie-in copy of Burrough’s
Naked Lunch to the ‘fiction’ section. seems reasonable. not quite. store policy strictly mandated that at least one copy of each m.t.i. rightfully belonged on the crappy little ‘entertainment’ island, and chris was erroneously placing this where he felt it was best represented instead. whatever foolishness occurred, it was a blessing, in hindsight. it set into motion the forthcoming life-affirming infatuation.
not far from the scene on the numbskullery, having repaired the misappropriation of whichever volume, chris surveyed some of the nearby titles. one leaped out at his ignorant, adolescent ass, Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski. This sounded promising, chris thought. he knew a little something about madness, he was snapping mad this particular evening, hell, he was extraordinarily mad, and probably figured he could do with toning it down a notch, to plain, Ordinary Madness. already impressed, his initial reaction was confirmed by the cover photo. a grizzled, smoking pollack. solid. plus, a testimonial on the back by some crappy offbeat publisher (at this age chris knew this sort of company published all the significant material) affirming that “people seem to either love him or hate him.” The accolades went on to promise “tales of [Bukowski’s:] own life doings are as wild and weird as the very stories he writes…exceptional stories that come pounding out of his violent and depraved life". chris was immediately sold. he set this treasure aside, although removing this book now created a little wiggle room on the shelf. but nothing big enough to attempt fucking. chris moved on. upon completion of his menial responsibilities, he sauntered up to todd and made use of his employee discount (unfortunately, he couldn’t find a way to also utilize that appallingly-large appendage as well at the time).
over the next few days, chris repeatedly burst into juvenile hysterics over Bukowski’s crude wit. this shit was priceless. he cracked up with each mention of uncontrollable vomiting. chris exploded with glee at each knee-slapper concerning cocks. admired the disregard this badass had his for liver, the police, and his myriad whores. foul language and dirty thoughts, culminating in stories alternately ridiculous and astounding. but it would be insulting to say that the book only satisfied on these lowbrow levels, more importantly, chris had a thematic appreciation for this clever shit. the revelation in failure promoted by bukowski. haughty contempt for society and their phony and puerile pop culture. Buke’s obviously-unrecognized genius was apparent, as in many stories he toiled fruitlessly as some workaday goon, and chris was sadly comforted when this noble malcontent spoke of the futility of trying to stay sane in an already fucked-up world. sure, he still nearly pissed himself as Buke recounted episodes of scrubbing pigeon shit, miserable sexcapades, and uncontrollable puking, but this might have been the first book that actually spoke to chris as a person. a few stories here and there missed the mark, but chris reasoned he may simply be too young to associate with these, perhaps he’d have to live, and love, and spectacularly fail in order to fully appreciate the few stories which didn’t captivate. he reassured himself this was probably the case, his own lifestyle wasn’t to far removed from Buke’s, he’d come to that understanding some day. hell, chris figured if he could imagine his future-self putting anything to paper, it would probably look quite similar. he looked at the degenerate on the cover again; not a comforting thought.
as chris got older (one cannot claim he grew up) he eventually worked his way through almost everything he could locate by his depraved hero. save for the poetry. and full-length stories. this suited him just fine. he was never a fan of poetry to begin with. for some reason suspected Bukowski’s novels would blow, as his love of the stories was dictated by their brief, kick-in-the-nuts approach. besides, it seemed quite unlikely anyone could continue being that funny and asinine for over a hundred consecutive pages. chris still thought that this shit was hilarious, perhaps the printed panacea for a dismal day.
and now, a decrepit, old pollack himself, chris has to admit that he still likes the Bukester, albeit quite a bit less than he used to. of the 30+ stories within Tales of Ordinary Madness, chris really only thought that 10 of them were really A-list material during this recent reading. not only was this disturbing in that this count was down from 16 just a few years ago, but there wasn’t a single B-list or below that he’d come to appreciate in age. perhaps there really isn’t anything deeper in these stories; mayhap all they can serve as is a quick, shock-value fix to get you sniggering. sure, at times it’s a bit depresseing that some stories read as though buke is fighting with all his might to maintain the self-image he’s perpetuated all these years: some poor fool unable to adapt or simply to stubborn to grow up. it might be even more soul-destroying that chris, and quite possibly many of you, can still relate.
but, fuck it. this shit is still hilarious.
Personal favorites: The Great Zen Wedding, Goodbye Watson, My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage, Rape! Rape!, No Stockings, and The Blanket. -
Il libro è costituito da racconti che descrivono, con una scrittura forzatamente volgare, la vita di Charles Bukowski. Dai racconti emerge uno scrittore sempre senza soldi, che pensa solamente ad andare all'ippodromo, ad ubriacarsi e al sesso in tutte le sue forme. Questi "argomenti" sono esposti in modo ripetitivo, prevedibile ed anche, talvolta, disgustoso. Bukowski non si fa scrupoli nel raccontarci come fa sesso (in tutti i modi ed in ogni momento), come si ubriaca (sempre), come si svuota l'intestino (peggio di una mucca...), come dorme (in continuazione), come vive alla giornata. Tutte cose che dopo poche (proprio poche) pagine iniziano ad annoiare a morte.
I personaggi che descrive sono persone qualunque trovate tra gli strati più bassi della società, disperati che giocano ai cavalli perdendo lavoro e famiglia, ubriaconi, prostitute. E li descrive molto bene sapendo di appartenere a quella società, sapendo di essere esattamente come le persone che descrive. Non critica, Bukowski. Non si compiace dello squallore che vede. Si limita a registrare le follie, spesso senza senso, delle persone che incontra.
Sforzandosi un po' di capire cosa stia dietro l'apparenza (oscena, sconclusionata, alcolica e anche sgrammaticata), si nota una certa ironia di fondo, una visione delle cose cupa e pessimistica, un voler mostrare ogni aspetto misero della vita per quello che è, senza possibilità di riscatto. Sembra che Bukowski disprezzi profondamente questa società, che non ascolta o non si interessa dei problemi e delle necessità dei singoli.
Ci sono parecchie frasi molto profonde, disperse nel testo.
" Tante volte uno deve lottare così duramente per la vita che non ha tempo di viverla"
"Il codardo è uno che prevede il futuro. Il coraggioso è privo d'ogni immaginazione"
"Diventa bravo in qualsiasi campo, e ti crei subito dei nemici. I campioni vengono innalzati affinché la folla provi poi maggior gusto a vederli rotolare, battuti, fra la merda, e goda a subissarli di fischi."
Purtroppo non ho terminato il libro (e di solito finisco pure le pagine gialle, se le inizio...), nonostante fossi partito bene, perché la caccia al tesoro di queste chicche non mi interessava più. Neppure nei fumetti di "Lando il montatore" che da ragazzino trovavo dal barbiere si trovavano dei dialoghi così basici, così ripetitivi e quindi così noiosi.
Non conoscevo questo autore e devo dire che è riuscito abbastanza a stupirmi. Purtroppo, nel complesso, mi ha stupito negativamente, in quanto nel libro ho visto solo tanta tristezza, negatività e pessimismo in una cornice ripetitiva e stancante. -
Oscuro y cínico. Bukowski nos demuestra en este trabajo la crudeza de la realidad vista a través de los ojos de la indiferencia y lo que podríamos llamar "ente perverso". Cargadísimo de un surrealismo que se acomoda muy bien a los estados de consumo de alcohol y sustancias, relato tras relato te ves inmerso en una serie de acontecimientos que parten de la realidad y se distorsionan en la mente del protagonista que es repetidas ocasiones es el mismo Bukowski u otros que personifican la apatía de un mundo en donde la tragedia diaria se vuelve una ironía viviente. Me recuerda muchísimo a ese magnífico video de Radiohead de Paranoid Android en donde el morbo, el sinsentido, la introspección, la decadencia social y lo irreal se mezclan en un perfecto coctel que primero te excita, luego te emborracha y por ultimo saca todas las tripas en un violento vómito de sensaciones rodeadas de lo oscuro de los relatos. Aquí podemos presenciar desde la introspección de un bebedor compulsivo hasta los pensamientos mas íntimos de un violador infantil. Desde el descaro del mas imperturbable de un vividor gigoló hasta el genuino enamoramiento de un méndigo desahuciado. Desde lo morboso hasta lo mundano. En definitiva, desde lo real hasta lo filosófico y en ello no hay grandes discursos ni pasajes memorables, solo las vivencias de cínicos borrachos y desenfrenados sexuales que bien podrían ser tus vecinos.
Gran libro escrito por un mas gran aun Bukowski que comprendía que el arte de escribir, al final de las cuentas es un ejercicio de documentación del alma y de las tristes realidades que en ella reside. no hay un final feliz, no hay un aprendizaje, no hay mundo mejor, solo la descarnada concientización de lo que ocurre allá afuera, en ese penumbroso mundo de cemento y hierro envejecido y de cloacas sulfurosas. Mi Relato preferido? por mucho fue "Animales hasta en la sopa" con un hilo argumental perfecto de un protagonista que no tiene nada (ni el ánimo de vivir) y que lo encuentra todo en lo que cualquiera de nosotros tacharía como "locura extrema". Relato muy sentimental repleto de reflexiones humanistas de un corte exquisitamente crudo.
Sin duda el super poder de Charles era la creación de personajes tremendamente realistas que saben jugar bien en el terreno de lo absurdo y que te mantienen atrapado en sus relatos semifantásticos entre lo surreal, lo político, lo mundano, lo sentimental, lo banal y lo grotesco.
Bastante recomendado, aunque debo advertir que no deja de ser un poco pesado para algunos gustos (no para mí, por supuesto) -
Bukowski, Bukowski...
even though this guy uses mostly the same topics on his books there is something about it that draws me again and again and again to it like I'm addicted. And I have to say in terms of exposing his mind and philosophizing about various topics this book for me it's the one that is most well written (among the ones I have read so far of course).
I've underlined some quotes and lines of thought that I want to add to the quotes here later.
There is a lot of talk about the race track of course (one of my least favorite Bukowski themes);
beautiful and caring thoughts on his daughter (as I said before it is really to this person that he puts all his love and energy at, because the other people are for him, just other people, as it seems);
love the thoughts on hallucinogenics and weed. Weed for Bukowski is a phony drug and how he explains why is just fucking funny;
there is a weird story about a girl that owned a zoo;
I loved the one about his dreams and how he dreams about trying to sleep in his room exactly how it was before (I used to have this so many times it was insane);
The Zen marriage is a very very good one;
I never knew that Bukowski was in a looney bin before (even though it's perfectly plausible);
This title: Cunt and Kant and a Happy home - genius!
I'm sure if I'll read my underlined quotes I'll come up with more. -
O revenire la Bukowski după mulți ani. L-am regăsit și mai uman și mai autoironic și mai amuzant și mai al naibii de sincer ca oricând. Rămâne în continuare regele acestui stil onest și direct pe care mulți au încercat/încearcă să-l imite (și „miros” a imitatori de la kilometri distanță).
